by Ron Savarese
Paul’s family took me in and made a new family for me. My aunt and uncle took care of the details of the estate and the disposition of my father’s medical practice. Though we lived in a small, blue-collar town, and were mostly working class people, there was enough money to assure I would have a good education and attend a proper university. I engrossed myself in the events of high school and college. There was even a bit of money from the estate to help me make my way into the world.
It was many years before I thought again about Ava.
WITH THE ANGELS
The child is getting restless now. He fidgets with his buttons. I watch him. And I sigh.
That’s sad about his family, the child says. Will the little boy remember any of this when he arrives?
I don’t know how to answer. How can I tell him that he may not remember anything about this story or this place? How can I explain that the only way to remember this place is with the heart?
Yes, of course he’ll remember, I say. There will be reminders. He might hear a song. He might see a butterfly or a rainbow. He might have a dream. There will be reminders. There will be things that will help him remember where he came from.
The child picks up a long, slender leaf that has fallen from the willow tree. Then he looks up at me.
But will I remember you?
I look into the sky and take a deep breath. I can hardly speak.
One day, perhaps you’ll be sitting under a tree like this and the wind will blow and the leaves will shimmer. Perhaps you’ll look up into the sky and your breath will flutter. And perhaps in that brief tiny moment when all is still, if you listen with your heart, you’ll remember.
ALBERT
Albert sat on a bench outside the Pavilion at North Shore Park. It was around two in the afternoon; we’d been there since mid-morning, as we’d been almost every Saturday that summer before my junior year of high-school.
I was inside the Pavilion playing a game of poker on a picnic table with three of my friends. Paul was inside too, near the snack bar with a group of girls, not too far from Albert. Paul was trying to act cool. He was trying to impress a girl he liked. I could tell. I knew Paul. I knew his moves. I knew the way he flexed his muscles when he tried to impress a girl. The movement was subtle. It was an unconscious thing—a little twitch. He couldn’t help himself. The same way Albert couldn’t help himself with the little twitches and spasms he had. He was born with them.
But Paul wasn’t born with his twitch, his flex. He just did the unconscious movement when he tried to impress someone, especially a girl. He looked down at his biceps, which were protruding mightily since he’d been working out with weights the past couple of years. He didn’t even realize he did it. But I realized it. And I watched him that day. I watched him, keeping my other eye on Albert.
Some of Paul’s friends—or at least the boys who thought they were his friends—stood around Albert. They were too shy to talk to girls, so they hung out in a pack. Albert seemed to be fair game that day. A husky boy in a white tee-shirt and red swim trunks strolled up and taunted him. The boy moved his hands and jerked his head back and forth, mimicking Albert.
Oh yeah, I knew this guy in the red trunks. I’d seen him around town in the summer and on holiday breaks when he was home from boarding school somewhere in New England. His family owned some of the businesses that employed a lot of people in our area. He always seemed to think he could do whatever he wanted whenever he wanted to do it.
Albert tried to ignore the boy.
But Red Trunks kept it up. He was looking for trouble.
I saw the fight coming. It had happened many times before. First a little shove then a push, another push, another shove, and then the punches.
I’d stuck up for Albert so many times I’d lost track. But that day, I was tired, and I had a winning hand. I was hoping Paul would handle it; after all, he was only ten yards away from our cousin. But Paul was too busy being cool.
Another boy, a short boy wearing a New York Yankees baseball cap stepped out from the group and tried to figure out how to impress the girls. Shorty mocked Albert. He made spastic motions with his head and hands; he blinked his eyes rapidly to imitate Albert’s involuntary eye movements. Albert, taller than Shorty, stood up. Shorty hesitated for only a moment and pushed Albert back onto the bench. Even though I couldn’t see it, I knew the look on Albert’s face: confused, still hoping it wouldn’t go any further. Shorty pretended to poke Albert in the eye. Albert flailed out. Shorty jumped back.
Somebody shouted, “You’re a freak!”
I don’t know which spineless idiot said that, but it had gone too far.
What the hell was Paul doing? I knew he saw what was going on. He could have been there in three seconds to kick some ass. He knew none of those boys would mess with him.
Albert lunged for Shorty. Shorty curled into a crouch, and Albert flew right over him, landing face first in the sand.
The other boys laughed.
I slammed my poker hand down on the picnic table and broke into a run. I was pissed. I was going after somebody and I didn’t care who it was. Red Trunks saw me coming and took two steps backwards. By that time, I was in his face. I grabbed the front of his tee-shirt and jerked him toward me.
“If I ever see you anywhere near my cousin again, I’ll rip your head off!”
Red Trunks gave me a shove to the chest and broke my hold. “What’s the matter with you man? I didn’t do anything. We were just havin’ some fun!”
I let my arms drop to my side, but my fists were clenched. “Having fun—my ass! He wasn’t bothering anyone. Just leave him alone.”
Red Trunks pulled at his tee-shirt, straightening it. “Alright! Alright!”
He turned and walked toward the group. He shook his head side to side. “What the hell’s up with him?” The group scattered as I glared at them.
Paul was just behind me. I swung around to face him. “Are you sure you’re cool enough, Paul? Are you too cool for Albert now too, or are you just going to pretend you don’t even know him anymore?”
Paul threw out his arms in exasperation. “Look Joe, it’s time Albert learns to take care of himself. We’re not always going to be around.”
“But you’re around now.”
It hurt me to be at odds with any of my close friends and especially a cousin, but I should have taken that stand with Paul a while ago. He had been distancing himself from Albert over the past year. I turned away from Paul and walked the few feet to where Albert was standing with a blank look on his face. “Hey, come on buddy, let’s go get some fries.”
I slung my arm around Albert’s shoulder and looked back at Paul. “You coming with us?”
That day, because of Albert, I decided I would never allow anyone I loved to be treated poorly again. That day, I decided that I would do whatever it took to prevent this. That meant power. And that meant money. That’s the way the world is. There are those who have power and there are those who are victims of it. I was going to have power, and I was going to have money.
THE LIGHT PLACE
The woman in the rose dress holds her hand palm facing down, a few inches above my head. She holds it there then glides it over the length of my outstretched body, over the blanket that covers me, all the way to my toes, then back again, slowly, meticulously, never touching me.
I gaze at her, a question in my eyes.
Creamy blue light streams in through the window. The pillow, the covers, and the canopy, the pastel shades of primrose and lilac mix with the light and fill the room with a glow.
“You’re all right. You’re right here, where I said you would be. Did you dream?” she asks.
She watches me.
“Was that a dream?” I ask. “I saw myself. I saw my family. They’re looking for me.”
She smiles and reaches over to guide me from the bed. Did she hear what I said?
“Come with me.”
I stand. But I can’t feel the floor beneath m
y feet. She holds my hand and leads me back to the room with the table and chair. The light fills this room, too. A gray and black long-haired cat lays curled on the sofa. I look for the picture of the cat hanging above the sofa, but it isn’t there anymore. The cat on the sofa licks its paws and rubs its ears.
“Do you know what’s happening yet?” she asks.
“I’m dreaming this whole thing, right?” I answer. “This is all a dream. You, this room, the little boy, the cave in the snow, it’s all a dream, right? I’m going to wake up, it’s going to be time for Christmas Eve, and this is going to be over.”
“Oh yes. Soon it will be Christmas Eve. And everyone is waiting to see you,” she says. Then she pauses. “But no, Joe, this is not a dream. This is more real than anything you have ever known. Do you understand?”
I don’t know if I understand or not. Something about what she’s saying is familiar to me. But what I have always known to be true before has a tenuous balance right now. The black and white world I lived in has shifted and taken on meanings I’d never imagined. Nothing is simple anymore.
There’s a part of me that knows exactly what she’s talking about. But I don’t want to know it. And this woman—I want desperately to remember her. But it is just beyond my reach. Just beyond my awareness.
“No, I don’t understand,” I answer.
She takes a step toward me, and caresses my face. “There’s something here for you to discover. The little boy has something for you. But you must be patient. This is your transition.”
What does she mean by “transition?” If she means I’m dying, why doesn’t she come out and say it? I’ve always hated that new-age babble. Anyway, I’m not going anywhere except back to Paul’s house.
The woman stands on her tiptoes and moves her face toward mine.
“There’s someone who wants to see you,” she says.
She presses her lips against my cheek, and white light flashes before my eyes. The light explodes into tiny particles. Then everything is gone and I’m standing on a mountain top.
I’m standing on a snow-covered peak. Dim lights glow from the valley below. I think I had just been in a cottage down there. But I can’t be sure. It’s getting dark.
Off in the distance, I see something moving toward me, an animal or a small person making its way up the mountain. As it gets closer, the image is clearer. It looks like a man. As he approaches, the air gets colder. He’s wearing brown and black fur boots and a brown fur coat with a hood that covers his head. Brown leather straps from the pack on his back crisscross his shoulders. His heavy dark-brown beard and straggly brown hair nearly obscure his eyes. He stops several feet in front of me and stands for a moment.
“They told me I would find you here,” he says. He twists his shoulders and his backpack falls to the ground. He unties a pouch on the side of the bag, and pulls out a piece of fur the size of a loveseat throw. He hands it to me. “Wrap this around you,” he says.
The temperature has dropped dramatically. I wrap as much of my body as possible, trying to cover my face and head.
“Follow me.”
We walk in silence. He leads, I trundle close behind. I see a small wooden cabin. His pace quickens as we approach it. When he opens the door, snow falls from the roof onto our shoulders.
“In here,” he says. He tells me to sit in a chair covered with animal fur. He sits next to me. He pulls his hood down around his neck. Ice crystals cling to his thick beard. He sits back in the chair and loosens his fur coat.
“Hello Joe, remember me?” he asks.
I rest my hands on my legs and look at him closely. Something feels painful about this. I look away and survey the room, buying time. The cabin walls are made of thick, round logs, held together with white mortar. The wooden floor creaks as I shuffle my feet and shift in the chair. I look back at him. “No, I don’t remember you,” I answer.
He rubs his hand over his beard to shake the water and ice away. Then he runs both hands over his long brown hair, starting at his forehead and squeezing the water out all the way to his shoulders, shaking the water off his hands.
“That’s because when you knew me, I didn’t look like this. The long hair and beard happened after I hit the streets.” He pauses. “Do you know what’s happening to you, Joe?” he asks.
I straighten up, and sit on the edge of my chair. “I’m not sure.”
He lifts himself by the arms of his chair so that he, too, sits stiffly and at attention. Then he leans forward. “That’s what I thought. I’m going to show you some things,” he says. “I know you want answers. It was the same for me when I first came here. It took a little while, but I figured it out. And now I’m here to help you figure it out too.”
He pauses and moistens his lips. “Then maybe I can get off this mountain,” he says.
What is this about?
He picks up a book that lay on the floor and takes it to a bookcase full of old, leather-bound books. Next to it is a black, cast iron, pot-belly stove, with a rusted flue.
“Is this place real?” I ask.
“Oh yeah, it’s real alright. Right now you think it’s a dream, don’t you? That’s what I thought too. All I can tell you now is that this is a transition place, a place for people who haven’t decided yet. You’re here to decide. You’re lucky. Some don’t get that chance.”
He turns and looks out the window as if he’s looking for someone.
Did I hear that right?
“Decide…?” I lean forward to hear him better.
“Whether to live or die.”
“What? Are you serious?”
He narrows his eyes. “Look, you’re dying—okay? Isn’t that obvious?” he says. “I know what it’s like though. You feel like you’re between two worlds. Part of you is here, but another part of you is somewhere else. And you can’t make sense of it, can you?”
I nod my head. “Yes, yes! How do you know that?”
“Because I know how this works. I came here when it was my time too. You have a choice to make. I’m here to help you make it. I already made mine. And now this is my last task—to forgive you so I can move on.”
I sit back in my chair and look up at the low ceiling, at the dark wooden beams that span the length of the room, and try to take in what he’s telling me. “Forgive me for what?” I ask.
“My final illusion,” he says. He sits down again, more relaxed this time, and eases into the fur chair’s soft folds. “I was your first business partner Joe. Way back when you first started out. Remember?”
“Oh my god! Walt!” I open my mouth, but before any words come out, he stops me.
“No, don’t say anything. It was a long time ago— another lifetime for me. We were just kids then trying to make it big. Remember now? New York. We both wanted to be big-time investment bankers. I got hurt in that car accident and had to take a few months off—remember now, Joe?
“The firm asked me to pick someone to handle my accounts while I was out. I trusted you to cover for me. When I came back, my clients wanted to stay with you. You had the gift of gab that I didn’t have. You had the brains and the good looks too. You had everything going. And you stole my clients.”
A jolt like an electric current shoots through me. Yes, I recognize him, and I remember. “But they wanted to work with me!” I say. “You could have had them back. You didn’t try! You buckled! You didn’t even put up a fight!”
“Oh, is that how you see it, Joe? Is everything just a fight? You lied. You made up stories about me to win over my clients.” He takes a breath. “Just listen to me Joe. There’s no need to put up a fight now. This is about me forgiving you. It’s my illusion not yours. You don’t have to rationalize it. It’s just the way business was done at that firm in those days. It was the work we chose. But you didn’t know what became of my life.”
He rubs his hands over his long hair again. “You pressed ahead and forgot about me. But every life we touch intersects, Joe. Every action goes out and comes bac
k.
“A year later you left for another firm—took all ‘your’ clients with you. You were on your way to the big time. But not me—no, I lost my job because of you. Soon after you left, I got let go. Lack of productivity, they said—didn’t hit my numbers. I went home to my wife that day: thought she would comfort me, encourage me, and stand by me. But she wasn’t all that crazy about me to begin with, I guess. She married me because she thought I could provide a fancy life for her. So at the first hint of things turning sour, she bolted.”
I bury my head in my hands. Oh my god. Was I responsible for this man’s anguish and misery? Who else had I harmed with my ambition and drive for success?
“She hooked-up with a hot-shot attorney and about a year later filed for divorce. She took our daughter and she was gone. I went into a downward spiral—a real bad one, Joe—lots of drinking and drugs. Finally, after rehab didn’t work, I ended up in a homeless shelter. Bouncing around drowning my troubles in cheap booze or whatever I could find until my liver gave out. I got sick, who knows what finally killed me: Does it matter? I died alone on the street two days before my forty-first birthday.”
I can’t face this. My head droops and I close my eyes. Please, please, let this end.
He grabs my arm. “Look up Joe. Look at me! I got sick and died because I couldn’t forgive the people who hurt me, and I carried that anger deep down inside. When I first came here, I thought everyone else was responsible for my miserable outcome. I see how I blamed others for my misfortune: my wife, my friends, our former boss…
“So I had to forgive them. But first I had to see the illusion of it all and forgive myself. And that’s what I’ve learned here—about illusion and forgiveness. And I’ve forgiven myself and everyone else, everyone except you.
“You see, I thought you were the one who was responsible for what happened to me. But now I know. It wasn’t you. It was me. So here I am on this mountain for the last of it, to forgive you so I can move on.”
He stands and walks to one of the windows near the door. He looks outside. What the hell is he looking for? I want to get up and say something to him, but I stay in my chair. Then he turns around and faces me, leaning against an old wooden desk.
